Chapter Nine
Amity
Manhattan looks different at night.
From my desk, I sit and gaze out over the city. It’s a blur of colors, of moving parts that you can’t quite make out but sort of zip around like an apparition.
My body aches as I stretch, my muscles tight from sitting in this chair for the last ten hours. I’ve poured over statistics and facts, human resources data and projections, and worked on the presentation to the Board. Glancing down at my computer screen, I feel good about what I have. But I’m not quite ready.
My energy is starting to wane. Between mulling over Carver’s half-assed apology and working on this project, I’m wearing out. Things I know aren’t true are creeping into my subconscious, messing with me. Things like . . . maybe Carver is sorry.
If he was joking or playing up his responsibility, he’s a damn good actor. There was no hint of silliness, no sexy smirk or attempt at dazzling me with his charm or sidetracking me with innuendo. It was a straight-forward, cut-and-dry, quasi-serious attempt at an explanation. Maybe it was stupid to hold a grudge all this time, but his actions changed the way I felt about myself for a long time. It gave me a complex and that is very real—right or wrong.
“I’d give anything for a cup of coffee from Hanley’s,” I groan, wincing as I stand.
The cleaning crew works quietly outside my office; I can see them through the windows. Everyone else left hours ago.
Leaving my heels beside my desk, I head towards the break room. Giving a little wave to an older lady running a vacuum inside Hallie’s office, I keep going until I get to the end of the hallway. Flipping on the light, I see a box of donuts still sitting by the coffee maker.
“Score!” I exclaim quietly, my stomach rumbling along with the celebration.
“What are we cheering for?”
I turn around to see Carver. His black and grey striped shirt is untucked, wrinkled at the ends from being shoved in his pants all day. The top few buttons are undone and the sleeves are not only unbuttoned, but rolled to his elbows. His silky hair is a mess as if he’s been running his hands through it all day.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” I say, stifling a yawn.
“I’m always here,” he shrugs. “What are you doing?”
“Eyeing those donuts.”
“Did you have dinner?”
I raise and drop my shoulders. “I don’t even know what day it is, much less if I’ve eaten today.”
“Rule number one at Jones + Gallum,” he says, giving me a sweet grin, “is you have to take care of yourself.”
“You’d think that being I’m the Gallum part of that equation, I’d know that.”
“You’d think,” he says, his grin growing wider. He cocks his head to the side. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we go get something to eat?”
Yawning again, I look at him pitifully. “Is it wrong to say I don’t have the energy to fight a crowd and wait for a table?”
“We do own a chain of restaurants. Just pointing that out.”
“Yeah, but if we go to one of those, then we’re going to start dissecting every little nuance and it’ll turn into more work.”
“True.” He wipes a hand down his face. “You know, I really am sorry, Amity. I know I apologized earlier, but your acceptance of that was the most insincere forgiveness I’ve ever heard.”
I watch him shift his weight and struggle to put whatever he’s thinking into words. Without the smirk and the tie and the expanse of his office around him, he seems more . . . mortal. Maybe more capable of having feelings. Of being honest.
I’m a little compelled to forgive him. After all, I’m the soon-to-be-CEO of this company. I’m the one with the power. Demanding to hold on to this anger from all those years ago—from a situation that taught me more life lessons than I can count, no less—only makes me weak. Grudges make you vulnerable, prepared to do things just for spite . . . even if they aren’t in your best interest. Weak I am not.
“You know what I really want?” I say, fighting a grin.
“What’s that?”
“Tacos.”
“I always want tacos,” he agrees.
“I’ll grab some on my way home or something,” I say, hearing my stomach call to the donuts.
“How long are you working tonight?”
“I could work until dawn and not be done.”
A look of satisfaction flickers across his face. “What if we relocated our efforts tonight?”
“To where?”
“My house.”
Snorting, I shake my head. “Yeah. That sounds like the best plan I’ve ever heard.”
“What if I tell you I’ll have tacos there for us when we arrive? And orange soda.”
I try not to let on how impressed I am that he remembers my favorite drink.
“And I’ll have someone pick up some peanut butter chocolate brownies as a kicker,” he taunts. “Think about it, Amity. I have all the space you need, plus chairs a hell of a lot more comfortable than these . . .”
“You don’t play fair, using tacos and brownies as ammunition.”
He flashes me a grin. “So, what do you say?”
“I say you’re a pain in my butt.”
“I want you to know, as a sign of the maturity I have this evening, I won’t say the filthy thing on the tip of my tongue.”
Smacking him on the shoulder, I walk by him. I should tell him no. I should be working tonight. But I can’t deny the tug my spirit feels and, for once, I give in. “Fine. But if there aren’t peanut butter chocolate brownies, I’m leaving.”
***
His home is nothing like I expect.
Entering the foyer of the penthouse, I’m greeted by bright white walls and bold, colorful paintings. It’s fun and smart and thoughtfully put together.
I look at Carver. “This is beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
He leads me through the entryway and into a large, open living room. The city twinkles at our feet, a stunning backdrop to the landscape of the room. Muted pieces of furniture are arranged to make the expansive room feel cozier. Again, bold pieces of art are dotted across the room. A turquoise-and-grey tiled wall at the far end pulls your eye into the kitchen.
“I love this,” I say, turning a complete three-sixty. “It’s stunning.”
“I have to say, I’ve never seen this room look better.” He casts me a soft smile that hits me in the stomach because I build a quick wall around my heart. If that wasn’t the target, he aimed wrong.
Before I can respond, he heads to the kitchen. As I follow behind, I gawk at the way his body moves so easily through this space. He looks so comfortable, yet so commanding. My stomach rumbles like I haven’t eaten in a week.
We reach the counter and I spy a variety of foods spread out. As promised, tacos, orange soda, Spanish rice, refried beans, and peanut butter chocolate brownies wait for us to dig in.
“This looks amazing,” I say, my mouth watering.
“Besides the soda and brownies, it all came from a little hole-in-the-wall a few blocks over. It’s my favorite.”
“Oh, so these are like cheap tacos?” I laugh, sitting on a bar stool.
“These are the best cheap tacos you’ll ever have.”
We make our plates and eat in silence. Every now and then, we look up and exchange a smile or laugh or a memory from our childhood. It’s nice. Maybe the nicest dinner I’ve had in a long time.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I groan, resting my hand on my stomach.
“Admit it.”
“What?”
“Best cheap tacos ever.”
“I think I’d even go so far to say they’re the best tacos ever period, cheap or not,” I admit. “I wish I could eat one more.”
“You do that too?” he laughs. He gathers our plates and sits them by the sink. “I thought I was the only one that wished I could eat another bite of something just because it tastes so good.”
“Nope. I do it too.” I hop off the stool and pad across the kitchen floor. “Want me to help you put these in the dishwasher or something?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll get them later.”
“Later will be tomorrow,” I yawn.
“Your point is . . .”
“That won’t bother you?”
“Why should it?” he shrugs. “They aren’t going anywhere.”
“Fair enough. I’m not going to beg you to let me help.”
“I don’t want you to beg me.”
He forces a swallow as the air between us changes. It electrifies somehow, almost crackling.
“For the record,” he says, his voice a low, honeyed rumble, “you would never have to beg me for anything.”
“Just dare you, right?”
His eyes darken, his lips twist into a thin, irritated line. “Amity, don’t.”
The words are nearly a growl, his gaze a penetrating shot straight to my core. My stomach twists, pulling tight as he takes a determined step towards me.
“I know you know I think you’re sexy as fuck,” he says. “But I want you to know something else.”
“What’s that?” I whisper.
“You’re the most attractive, most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Even though I’m certain he’s just saying that, I can’t help the heat in my cheeks. “Are you trying to get me to dare you, Mr. Jones?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m really not.” He approaches me, a hand tentatively reaching for the side of my face. He cups my jaw, stroking my chin with his thumb. “Don’t get me wrong—I’d love to fuck you right here, right now.”
My thighs press together, the ache in my core so strong my knees go weak.
“But here’s the thing,” he continues. “I almost think I’m better off to play it another way.”
“What way is that?” I whimper, hoping it’s a quicker route to the end zone. The burn between my legs is growing wildly out of control.
“To go slow. Do all the little things first. Seduce you.”
“That sounds like a very long process,” I say, my chest rising and falling.
“If you’re hard to seduce, it might be.” He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. “Then again, I get the feeling you may bail if I showed up with flowers or pressed a kiss to the back of your neck while you’re working.”
My heart twists, affected by his stupid choice of words and the confident swagger he’s owning right now. “Yeah, not my thing,” I lie.
He grins. “I agree. It would probably take you a good six months to get there.”
“In six months, that will be considered against company policy,” I wink.
“That’s right. The CEO can’t make out with the President on company time. What was I thinking?”
“I tell you what,” I say, my body beginning to arch towards his. “Once I’m CEO, I’ll consider amending the handbook.”
“That’s great,” he grins. He releases my chin, his hand brushing down the side of my neck, over my clavicle, and across the top of my breast. I shiver at his touch, my body craving more. Wanting more. Needing more. “Send me a copy and I’ll see about implementing it at Jones + Gallum.”
“You’re an ass,” I laugh, raising my hand to smack him, but he catches it mid-air. He holds it in place, our bodies finally make contact.
Struggling to breathe, I know if I push this any further, there will be no going back.
He smirks.
Screw it.
“Carver?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I think that process is too long, too drawn out to really be effective.”
“Do you have an alternative suggestion, Ms. Gallum?” he breathes.
“I think so.”
My breathing is haggard, my blood pressure soaring to unsafe levels as he runs the back of his hand down my side. “And what’s that?”
“I want you to fuck me right here, right now.”
His hand stills at my hip, his eyes glued to mine.
I smile. “I dare you.”